


Three Down

by SwampSpirit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied Torture, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, PTSD, Post-First War with Voldemort, implied one-sided wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-05-07 14:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19211215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwampSpirit/pseuds/SwampSpirit
Summary: James and Peter are dead. Sirius killed them. And the wizarding world is celebrating.Remus escapes to a small muggle village where nobody knows him and tries to understand where things went so wrong. He begins to think he can find explanation in his day job when he meets a muggle teen who reminds him of Sirius





	1. Chapter 1

The war felt far away at the Potter's. There was a fire lit, warm food, and an atmosphere so calm that even after weeks of fear and horror, Remus could feel himself relax a little.

“I think he's going to be a curse breaker, Remus,” James told him, holding Harry up so the boy could toddle around. “Just starting to walk and he's already learning to get everywhere he isn't wanted. I doubt curses will stop him. Lily found him on the roof last week.”

Lily shoved James a bit.

“He looks like he's complaining,” Lily said, “but he's actually quite smug about it. I suppose he just wants to know there will be somebody about to make his teachers suffer now that he's graduated.”

Remus didn't know what to say about that. All the future felt more and more like an if these days, but he didn't want to break that carefully held little spell of peace on the home.

“Maybe we should give him the map,” James said thoughtfully.

“We were lucky to survive our 'adventures', James,” Remus told him. “Give your poor son a chance of survival.”

“Just wait. Someday they'll be little Padfoots about,” Lily said. “I think McGonagal will cry.”

Remus glowered and James rolled his eyes.

“Oh don't tell me you're still on about that Remus. You two fighting is worse than the actual war.”

“We're not fighting. I just think you could have used somebody better for your fidelus charm, is all,” Remus said quietly. “Sirius hasn't been... you know he's been cagey. And he's never been the most mature. I'm not trying to say he's up to anything. Merlin's ba-” he glanced at Harry who burbled and shoved the corner of Lupin's bag into his mouth. “Merlin's beard, you know I don't want to think ill of him. I just think....well isn't there someone more reliable? What about Dumbledore?”

It was a soft lie. So James wouldn't worry. Sirius had always been terrible at hiding things, and he was hiding things from Lupin, where he'd been, what he was doing. He didn't want to believe ill of Sirius but.... he couldn't take chances. He didn't want more any of The Order to die because he couldn't think ill of a friend. After all, so many spies had been somebody's trusted friend. Should only his friendships be free from scrutiny?

It was Lily who rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Remus, it's alright. We trust Sirius. I mean, I don't trust him not to enchant my earrings to hide from me or not to slip Harry a sweet, but I trust him when it counts.”

He nodded. James tried to pry the bag from Harry's grip.

“It's fine James. It's had worse than spit on it. So are you two keeping occupied? I'd be going mad cooped up like this.”

“While keeping this little beast from climbing up the chimney?” James said, prying the bag from Harry's hands anyways and distracting him with a little bounce. “I hardly have time to take a bath. I doubt we'd be seeing much outside The Hollow anyways.”

They all laughed like they believed it.

The fire flickered and a face appeared within in.

Harry waved, his favorite new skill, and gave a big grin.

“Potters, sorry to interrupt but Lupin's needed on Order business.”

James sighed.

“Thank you Allistair. We'll toss him out.”

The fire flickered off and Lupin groaned as Lily gave him a gentle hug.

“Visit soon Remus. And please, at least send some research our way. I'm feeling quite useless here.”

James pulled him into his own hug, which was really more of a crushing sensation around the ribs, though Remus had learned to take it as the sign of affection it was and did his best to return the gesture with what he could still use of his arms.

“Make things right with Padfoot, okay? I can deal with Voldemort, I can deal with house arrest, but I cannot stand you two fighting.”

“We're meeting for drinks later this month,” Remus said sincerely. “We'll talk things out then. You keep your worries on nappies and teething.”

“Come by soon,” James said, holding him a bit longer than he used to. You never knew when it would be the last time. “Wave bye-bye, Harry.”

“Moobie bye!” Harry yelled.

This was the last time. The Potters would be dead two weeks later.

 

The night the war ended, Remus Lupin was in a muggle inn up north, reading the biography of a young werewolf in the 18th Century. It was a rather depressing book, but he hoped to find some hidden insight on how to reach out to the alienated werewolf community that was increasingly drawn in by the Dark Lord's promises.

It had been an unseasonably cold night, and after a long day of placing wards on a muggle village they had intel might be attacked, he was enjoying warming his feet by the fire.

The knock that came at his door surprised him. It could be death eaters. It could be room service. It could be room service under the Imperious Curse.

A quick peak revealed it was Alice Longbottom and he opened the door cautiously, hand on the wand in his pocket, she was probably doing the same.

“Did you bring any scones?” he asked, and saw her relax a bit as he passed the code phrase.

“No. Sorry. They only had blueberry, and I know you hate those,” she said, returning her own and he let go of his wand. She looked serious, pale and shaking, but there was also a hopeful light in her eyes.

“The Dark Lord is dead.” She said it the moment the door opened.

He had carried that little bubble of hope, one that seemed more fragile with each day, each death, and now it swelled in his chest. It was over. There would be complications, of course, trials, remaining Death Eaters, power grabs, but it was over. No more mind games and long weeks alone.

“Well, that's wonderful news, isn't it?”

But she did not look wonderful. Her face was pale, puffy, her eyes pink with crying.

“Yes but Remus... I wanted you to hear it from me. It was trying to kill Harry that did it. That killed him, I mean. He... James and Lily... they didn't make it.”

“That's impossible. They knew not to leave Godric's Hollow, Alice. Even the dark lord himself couldn't break that.”

“They didn't.”

He'd known something was odd about Sirius, worried his allegiance might have changed. He'd never _believed_ it. Not for an instant.

“Oh. I see. Where is Harry staying?”

“I think... with his aunt? Remus, I can stay if you want. I know you and James were... I mean you and the Potters...”

It felt disrespectful, to say the Potters were, to put them in past tense so quickly.

“No. Thank you for coming to see me, Alice. I think I'd very much like to be alone right now.”

He shut the door.

Remus knew pain well. He could tell you what it felt like to feel your skin hanging from your face in ribbons, the moment of tenseness right before a bone snapped, the itch of old scars. And he knew, with the worst pain, there was sometimes a moment where everything was sharp and clear and painless, and all you could think would be a dim “oh dear, this is really going to hurt in a moment”.

He could feel it. He was waiting for the pain, to fall wailing to the ground, to curse and scream.

He closed the door. He put on the kettle. He sat down. He searched his soul for some shred of emotion, to feel the grief he knew he must be there, tried to pick at it. James and Lily were dead. Sirius, might as well be. Harry was an orphan.

Voldemort was dead. There was no warmth in his chest either. What was the point of victory if there was no watching Lily and James hug, teary eyed, and tell baby Harry he was safe? If Sirius would not be dancing on Voldemort's metaphorical grave with every irreverent, off color joke he could think of?

The kettle whistled an offensively cheerful tune and poured itself into a cup.

He got up. He dropped the cup. He got out the mop.

He'd planned to go to a play with Sirius next week, see if he could set things right between them. He'd have to cancel. Maybe they'd refund the tickets.

He set the mop to work on the bathrooms and fixed up the cup.

Harry was an orphan. Alice had said he would live with his aunt. It would have been Dumbledore that did that. Who else would have? Most of the Order was dead. Especially now. James, Lily, and Sirius. All in one night.

It wouldn't do. He'd listened to Lily laugh about her sister over dinner, with that edge of pain that Sirius had always mocked his family in, about her temperamental brute of a husband, about her treating her boy like his every burp and bowel movement was proof of genius.

It wouldn't do.

He went to get his coat.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He strode into Hogwarts, coat thrown sloppily over pyjamas, forcing himself to ignore the students. He could hear it in the great hall, cheering, chanting, laughing. And of course they were. How many of them had lost friends, family? They would sleep safer tonight.

Instead he walked down the hall, taking the old, and thanks to James and Sirius, familiar path to the headmaster's. It was, unsurprisingly, quite crowded. Remus thought he could even see Minister Millicent Bagnold awaiting an audience, but he pushed past them, unwashed, unbrushed hair and pyjamas holding a strange kind of command in this small circle of fine robes.

“Let me in,” he hissed at the gargoyles, stepping to the front of the line.

“Password.”

“Not tonight, you wretched thing. Let me in!”

There was mumbling. He was making a scene. He did not care. He could only really manage one emotion at a time right now, and he was furious. He usually kept that one carefully in check. Though he knew it had no theoretical basis, it always felt like the wolf, like proof he was the monster people would think him to be. Right now, he didn't care about that either.

“Password.”

He strode forward, fully ready to see if he could rip the statue right out of the wall, when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Remus. I expected to see you. I just got in. Come in to my office.”

Soft blue eyes watched him over half moon spectacles, and he followed, quiet again, hands still shaking.

“Alice says you left Harry with his aunt?” Remus said quietly.

“Yes. It's for the best.”

Remus felt a little of the anger flood back.

“How? That family is.... they'll never accept him. They'll never understand him.”

“Lily gave Harry a very strong protection, Remus. Her love for him will keep protecting him as long as he's with family.”

Remus wadded up the tails of his coat and clenched his fists around them, trying not to raise his voice too loud.

“So? Family isn't just blood. I'm more his family than some bloody bigots who will never see what a gift he is. Please Dumbledore. Don't take Harry from me too.” His voice broke, only for a moment, and then he found the anger again. “This shouldn't even be up to you. James would want him with somebody who loved him.”

“I know, Remus. I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you, but the protection only extends to those who are magically bound as Harry's family. Though I know Lily and James always saw you as such, there is no magical grounds to prove that, by blood or oath.”

For a hopeful, stupid moment, he almost named Sirius. He'd been the boy's godfather, sworn an oath to it, and he'd always doted on the boy. Remus hadn't really been jealous. He'd long ago come to terms that James and Sirius were a set. Lily had accepted, with a somber tone of one being told they have Flobberpox, that marrying James meant she was half-marrying Sirius too.

“I'd take care of him. He'd be safe with me, Albus.”

“Remus, I'm sorry. He's safest with the Dursleys. I know this must be... this is a great loss.”

“I'll petition.” He felt so small, like a child telling a parent he'll run away and live on sandwiches in the forest. “He should be around people who understand him, who love him.”

Dumbledore didn't say it. It would be a major case, and Remus was a werewolf. It would come out. Hell, Dumbledore might let it out if he thought it would protect Harry. But he just looked at Remus with those sad, blue eyes.

“I'll go,” he said, turning around.

“Remus...”

“I know.” He's sorry. It's for the best. There weren't any words he had to say that Remus wanted to hear. “I am sure you have something important to be doing.”

  


Remus had a little flat in Basildon. Just a bedroom to aperate in and out of safety really. Even in such a muggle filled area, he could not so much as step outside without fireworks and owls and everything to remind him he should feel something.

On the second day, he forced himself to look through the post. Thankfully, most people were too busy with their own emotions for condolences. The only letter was from Rubeus Hagrid, a tear stained letter telling him that Harry was safe, that James and Lily were the best of people and would be sorely missed.

Other than that, it was just the two copies of the Prophet.

The first one was a large picture of Harry in his parents arms, The Boy Who Lived, the paper said. He could imagine everyone reading it. The article talked about how tragic, how painful the loss of the Potters would be, about a couple they'd never laughed into the night with, a child they'd never held.

The second paper told him Peter was dead.

Sirius had done it.

There would be no trial.

It didn't make sense. He knew Sirius. He'd known Sirius. He had a cruel streak a mile wide. When he hated, he hated with a blind callousness that scared Remus sometimes, but he had always loved with the same ferocity. And he was not a coward or a fool who would bend to the dark lord.

He tried to picture the boy who had sat in Madam Pomfrey's after every full moon, putting cool rags on Remus's forehead, making him laugh, showing him the detailed notes that he only ever bothered to take when Remus was sick and see him as the same person as this laughing, bloody man who would kill three of his dearest people. And for what? For a cause he'd lost his entire family to reject?

He couldn't. Despite any suspicions, when he thought of Sirius, it was a dear friend, a warm laugh.

And feeling like that seemed more traitorous than anything Sirius had done.

So that was it.

There was nobody who knew him like those three. His parents and Dumbledore knew what he was, but they had not chosen him. They were simply good people who would not hesitate to take up the burden of a child with a monster in him.

But those three had no responsibility, and yet, they had never left him. They had never even hinted they wanted to. It had been alright that he would probably live on the move, that he would probably never have a partner or children. They had been his family, the world he'd fought this whole damn war to protect.

He wanted to kill Sirius. He wanted to hold him and ask him if he'd done something wrong, what had hurt him so badly that Remus had been so blind to. He wanted to never hear his name again.

If Sirius had been in such pain, he wished he'd had the decency to kill himself. Leave Remus a body to grieve.

Fuck. There would be funerals.

He couldn't do that. He didn't want to see other people give speeches about great sacrifice. This wasn't their grief.

He tossed the Daily Prophets in the bin and wrote a letter to cancel his subscription.

 

It wasn't that he wanted to be a shut in. He went out. It was just the fireworks and the owls and the whispered names of dead friends. And black dogs. And newspapers. And babies.

The Longbottoms brought dinner, told him to 'floo anytime.

He didn't check the mail anymore. Too many condolences, too many requests for interviews.

He read. What else was there to do?

He managed to live like that for a week before Minerva McGonagal knocked on his door.

“You look terrible, Lupin,” she said, even before hello.

“I... I feel terrible.”

“Understandable, considering, but I would not advise it as a long term state. May I come in for some tea?”

He nodded, busying himself with the kettle. She was quiet while he worked, and when he sat down, she looked gentle.

“I didn't see you at the funeral, Remus.”

He nodded.

“I- I couldn't. Was it nice?”

“It was lovely. James and Lily would have been positively embarrassed by the crowd. I believe over one thousand lilies were arranged for the event.”

“They both said they wanted their funeral to be a celebration of their life. I suppose they'll be cross I didn't show up with a few embarrassing stories.”

She put a hand on his shoulder.

“They'd understand. This loss is probably hitting you harder than anyone.”

“Besides Harry.”

“Remus, Harry is an infant. He will carry all the burdens of this event through his entire life, but his greatest loss is that he will never get to know his mother and father. You know them as dear friends. And have lost two other dear friends as well.”

“Sirius doesn't count,” Remus said, surprising himself with the venom in it.

She looked a bit like she was going to hug him, so he scooted away before she could get any ideas.

“I imagine what he has done makes the loss more complicated, not less painful,” she said, “but that's not why I came here. I have been informed that you have been taking time to yourself, and I understand the urge, but I want to make sure you have direction after this.”

He chuckled softly.

“Is something funny to you?”

“Ah, I was just remembering discussing my plans for after I left school.”

“Yes. I seem to recall you were frustratingly hesitant to choose any practical application of your talents. Though I understand your reasons. I am aware your condition makes you wary of long term employment. Still, the war is done and sitting in your flat reading is hardly a way to spend the rest of your life.“

“I considered being a researcher,” he said. “If I worked freelance, I'd be able to keep my own hours. But I'd need an income to support that. At least at first.”

“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “this would be a good time to go abroad. Get away from things for a bit. I've heard Greece has a good lycan community.”

He shuddered.

“Professor...” she would always be professor in his mind, “it would be the same there. It's not the postwar legislation I'm worried about. After Greyback in the media... well, it was only a matter of time. But even overseas. They'll all talk about it, the second they hear my accent. Ask if I met Dumbledore. Ask if I knew the Potters. And it will all just be some exciting story to them. Or they'll whisper to their friends not to talk about the war around me, and that might be worse.”

“Remus.... you were raised in a mixed family, weren't you? Perhaps this would be a good time to spend some time in the muggle world. Perhaps your father could-”

“No,” he said immediately. His parents were happy. They were safe. He would not return them to his childhood, moving all the time. And leaving the magical world. All his knowledge would be useless. His mother had taught him some over summers, but he knew he was practically a child on muggle issues. It felt like admitting loss, to all the people who said he'd never belong. Yes, yes, you're right. I'll go where I won't be a bother. It was his lonely youth all over again.

And then he tried to imagine his life in the wizarding world. Still lonely. Having to hide his identity just as desperately or live unemployed, maybe homeless. Certainly make a few headlines. He could see it. 'Second Sirius Black? Remus Lupin, Friend of Potters, Discovered to be Dark Creature'. And even without that, how many more weeks of celebration? And how many weeks until things went back to normal and the world turned on without the Potters? How many months have to keep the newspaper closed or see Sirius looking back, hear beloved names on the lips of strangers, tune out every conversation about politics?

“I couldn't bother my father,” he said finally, “but perhaps I could stand a bit of distance from wizarding politics. I don't have much of a CV though.”

McGonagal waved her hand.

“That's easy enough to take care of. Though it's frowned upon to lie about your experience, I could work up something that seemed verifiable. Perhaps library work?”

He gave a very weak laugh.

“You know a lot of these things.”

“I council Gryffindors. Not all of them go for magical work right away, if at all. And I lived in the muggle world for a bit myself.”

“I think... that wouldn't be too bad. I've been wanting to research redcaps and kelpies. Perhaps I can go wulver and get a place in Scotland. But there's so much to do.”

“It's alright. We can send you the work, and you can take the floo if there's an emergency. You can't help if you don't take care of yourself.”

“I'll uh... I'll start looking for a place.” His brain, quite independent of any orders, started to figure out what he'd need to do. Work out a CV. Stop by Diagon Alley. Exchange money at Gringotts. Start looking for apartments, filling out forms, desperately attempt to give himself a crash course on recent muggle events.

At least it gave him something to do.

 

It wasn't hard to find a place or, it turned out, a job. McGonagal had not lied about her knowledge of muggle employment.

He worked at the little local library three days a week. The rest of the days, as far as the village was concerned, he could disappear into the forest. The area had a fascinating variety of magical wildlife. He sent the occasional letter to let people know he was alive, and they left him to it. It was surprisingly easy to slip back into muggle society. Most people were too polite to talk politics, and his reading and maths had fared alright in the wizarding world. It wasn't as if he'd forgotten money, and he'd never tried to keep up with wizarding fashion so he didn't look any worse to muggles. His first moon was even an easy one and he was back at work the next day.

He got a bit of attention around the village, of course. In the first week, he had three invitations to drop by for tea or dinner. And there were endless questions. Why move here? Just wanted to get away from the city. Do you have family here? No. My parents live down south. Aren't you bored? I like the quiet. He avoided details with bland politeness, hoping he seemed quiet and bookish rather than cold or creepy.

Eventually he accepted the occasional invitation. It helped to have egotistical friends. Have had egotistical friends. It was easy for him to turn the conversation back to others, let them chat about renovations and kids and all the walks he absolutely must take. It was pleasant enough, and, honestly, he needed the food. Rent on a little cottage in the forest was easy, soundproofing was easy, preparing for property damage was hard. Ingredients for recovery potions were hard.

For once, the dread of the full moon was a relief from the more constant heaviness. The grief seemed to refuse to fade or burst forth. It just sat in his chest, a constant companion, and some nights he found himself looking for charms to either dull it or let it free. It must have shown in his face. Thankfully, people were too polite to ask the real questions. Why are you do you look so tired? Why live off in the woods alone? And the unspoken question that had followed him since he was a child; What's wrong with your face? Can I touch it? Does it hurt?

Tonight, he was having tea with the other librarian, Mrs. Forley. She was an older woman who seemed determined to help him fit in to town, including telling him about every nearby fair, and every eligible girl. He felt like she'd tried to set him up with half the village in this conversation alone.

“You know, if you want more work, the local school always needs tutors, especially responsible young men like you.”

He had a guilty flash of every rule he'd broken as a student.

“Well thank you. I'm not sure if I'd be any good though.”

“Have you seen the local kids?”

“No...”

“Precisely. None of them ever set foot in the library. And you're always asking for more hours.”

He sighed.

“How many students?”

 

“Your face’s bloody creepy.”

He'd worked with a couple of students, from those who sincerely wanted help with their essay, those hoping they could trick into doing their algebra for them, or were here as punishment. This girl, Anna, was clearly the latter. She was forth year and positively too cool for this, sprawled in the chair, bottle blackened hair in her eyes that she'd clearly cut herself. It was a bit too familiar.

“I know.”

Silence.

He couldn't bring himself to look at her, which was stupid. He looked over the notes in her file. Worst at Language and History. He'd have to read up on muggle history. He had learned a good deal of the sort of history that teens tended to like in an attempt to translate Binn's boring lectures into passing grades for his friends, but the bloody details of the goblin rebellion or the uncouth personal secrets of the first Minister of Magic would do no good here.

“So, uh, if I skive off, are you going to tell on me?”

“If you can show me you've mastered all the material, you're welcome to do whatever you want. For now, what are you interested in?”

“In school? Well Jeremy in in chemistry is fit as-”

“In general would be fine.”

“Not being here.”

“Well, I suppose studying any of this gets you out of here. It says you're supposed to be writing about Jane Austen?” It was lucky. He'd been trying to read more of the muggle classics at the library but most were... he had so many raw nerves. He'd hit some little passage and suddenly he'd remember a toddler he'd seen killed by death eaters, or a prank he'd played with James, or walking past a newsstand with Sirius' face on it and lost his appetite for the book entirely. (Did they really have to put him in the muggle papers too?) Austen was relatively safe, and at least the memories it did conjure were the happier ones.

“Oh yeah. Already done.”

She put a crumpled paper on the table. He gave it a quick read and looked back at the prompt with a slight smile.

“Well, I don't remember Elizabeth’s last name being Garvie and I'm not sure how this 'explains how Austen uses romance to comment on social issues', but you have a start. The next step might be reading the book.”

Anna shrugged.

“It's just a bunch of rich girls whose lives are all about marrying hot, richer blokes.”

“What about Charlotte?”

“Who?”

“Elizabeth's friend. She marries Mr. Collins for a secure income.”

“Then she should have written the book about Charlotte. Kids class keep talking about 'ooh it's about how hard it is to have to marry for money, it's so deep and smart and feminist', but it's just about posh girls who get both anyway.”

“See that's sounds like an interesting essay.”

She looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Yeah, if I want to fail.”

“I don't see why you should have to write an essay about why a book's good if you don't think it is. Though, again, you should actually read it first. You might even like it, and if your teacher gives you a hard time about it, I'll talk to him. He can't ask you to engage with the book if you get in trouble for having the wrong opinions.”

She looked doubtful.

“Yeah, whatever.”

They spent the rest of their hour reading, which he bribed her into by letting her put one of her own cassettes in the radio. It was horrible and noisy and she laughed at the look on his face.

“What? Never heard proper music before?”

“Heard too much of it actually.”

She gave him looked him over, giving him the quick and thorough assessment of a teen attempting to gauge precisely how lame you were.

“You know, your scars are actually sorta sick.”

He smiled a bit.

“I know.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

He missed them.

It had been seeing Anna that did it. Her meticulously ripped jeans, the defensive confidence, it had thrown him. He had prepared for the numbness to end, for the feelings that had been ripped out of his chest to be shoved back in. He'd thought they'd be clean, miss the Potters, miss Peter, hate Sirius. Instead it was a bloody mess of emotion. He was so angry at the Potters for being too trusting. He missed Sirius so damn much.

Mostly he hated himself. Self hatred was a common indulgence of his, but now it was deafening. He hadn't stopped it. He should hate Sirius. He should forgive him. He couldn't do either. He hated that he hadn't seen it coming, that he hadn't taken in Harry, that he hadn't told James what a good friend he was recently.

He hated that he didn't feel more for Peter. Peter, who'd always said the wrong thing at the wrong time, who's jokes always feel flat. Peter had said it once or twice, that he knew he wasn't like them, that he was tolerated as much as liked, and they'd said 'Of course not. You're brilliant. You're one of us.', but they'd never treated him like it. Even in death, Remus felt more guilt than grief. All these traitorous thoughts, and the harder he tried to stop them, the more insistent they became. It seemed he couldn't even cry. It was as if he'd left the tears too long and they'd frozen inside of him, an implacable weight.

He'd shut out the news, tried to hold onto the numbness, but that was over. Now he needed answers, and he'd left himself in the middle of nowhere without a single owl. He stared at the same page of his book as his thoughts turned over

He'd apperate into the city tomorrow and buy some copies of the prophet.

For now, his mind settled into fantasies. It was a misunderstanding, a trick, Sirius helped the Potters fake their deaths now they'd be back any day to explain it. Some part of Remus knew enough to laugh at himself. He imagined the dark lord had broken Sirius under torture, or with Veritiserum. It wasn't supposed to work, but how much research had really been done? And if not... something must have happened. It didn't make sense otherwise. He knew Sirius. He wouldn't do that. He would get through to him, help him heal.

Disgusting. He spat on James' graves by entertaining these delusions. Did it really not make sense, or was his brain just scrambling for excuses to cover his own blindness to his friend's descent? He just needed something that made sense.

But even if it was excuses, even if his thoughts were someday laid out as a textbook example of the process of denial, he needed answers. So tomorrow, he would go and find them.

 

The front page was Alice and Frank now, but this was a more familiar pain. The articles were shocked, outraged, but Remus didn't feel it. Who did that leave? Edgar, Caradoc, Benjy, Dorcas, Marlene, the Prewett's, they were all gone. Not just the order either. He couldn’t count the classmates, the teachers, the scholars his father used to sit with, that were just tics on his growing list of the dead. All he could register was a dull ache. Of course. Of course they're gone too.

He threw up, then went to visit them anyway. He sat with them, quiet, and felt a bit like he understood why they'd given up on trying to be in the world. And then he felt like a melodramatic arsehole and went back to reading.

He had forgotten the wizengamot skipped the trial. Things were too chaotic, and Sirius was mad, the papers said. He'd probably blow up half the courtroom. He was beyond reason, beyond mercy. But couldn't they have tried? He couldn't be the only one who wanted answers, and Bellatrix got a trial! Bellatrix Lestrange got a trial, and Sirius Black was beyond reason?

He aperated back for his shift at the library, but functioning, thinking about anything but Sirius and James and Harry and Alice and Marlene's little son, was beyond him. So many customers asked if he was alright, that he accidentally responded to a cheerful “Afternoon Remus!” with “I'm fine”.

The second his shift was over, it was back to the ministry.

He made a scene while the tired secretary repeated the same things in a placating tone. No, they wouldn't bring Black back for trial. No, they wouldn't show a civilian the files. No, he would not be told where he could visit Harry Potter. Yes, they understood this was difficult.

Nobody stopped him. A few people would step forward and somebody would grab their arm and whisper. He could guess what they were saying too. Don't you know who that is? He's mad with grief, let him yell.

“I still don't see one good reason not to have a trial.”

“Well that isn't up to you, sir.” Or me, their face said.

“Then I'll ask him myself. How do you arrange a visit to Azkeban?”

“Sir you.... you, ah, don't.”

“I've heard of family visiting. I read a Daily Prophet article about Azkeban before. And the minister goes there.”

“Yes, and you are not a journalist or the minister. And most of his family is already there.”

“I'm a bit tempted to go to the Prophet myself, tell them the ministry is hiding information about S- Black.”

He felt a bit bad. It wasn't her fault, but he could not accept this, and this seemed to work.

“I'll talk to somebody about putting in a request.”

It seemed he'd said the magic words, or whatever supervisor she'd gone to had more sympathy for him, because things went faster after that. Forms were filled out, more important people were called in, and it was agreed he would be allowed to see Black under two conditions. He would be wandless, and the meeting would take place within Azkeban. His friends would have been howling to see Remus like this, muggle clothes, being rude and threatening and all kinds of un-Remus like things just to visit Sirius.

It was almost midnight when he finally got into the rowboat, pockets filled with chocolate. An old woman sat in the boat with him, probably to make sure he obeyed the rules. She laughed as he hunched into his coat as they pulled from shore.

Even from here, he felt the chill of the place. He remembered reading about the history of the place, trying to get James into the history lesson with the grisly tales of Ekrizdis. Was it that selfish part of him that thought nobody should be held here?

The woman who rowed looked at him with concern.

“You should turn back, young man. I've rowed this route for years. I can tell who won't make it in. Even I don't go up to the prison if I can't help it. Just turn the criminals over.”

“Did you take Sirius Black?”

To his relief, she didn't adopt an excited or conspiratorial tone.

“I did. Silent as the grave, whole way out. They usually fight, try and escape, but he didn't so much as twitch.”

Remus gave a weak laugh.

“Never saw him stop talking before.”

The chill was getting worse and he took a bite of chocolate. It warmed him a bit, then made him swallow hard so he wouldn't retch as he started to shiver. He could feel the dementors, feel the mundane thoughts he'd filled his head with slipping away. Even the obsessive worrying about his own morality began to turn to something more blunt and visceral.

Sirius'd blown Peter to bits. He'd seen people blown apart. He could see it in his head. Sirius laughing his worst laugh, his “just got a letter from Mum” laugh, Peter trying to be brave, wand shaking in his hand, and then, in one bright moment, red on everything, pieces of human that your brain placed before you could stop it. He thought he could feel a bit of somebody's ear hit his cheek, and Sirius was still laughing.

“Eat some more chocolate, kid,” the woman said, trying to push the bar towards him, but the tears he'd been holding for months were finally coming, and he was shaking too hard to take a bite, gasping for air between sobs. She felt far away, an intruder on the bloody street. He tried to pull away, to take his brain anywhere else, every thought was slippery and fragile, the broken, horrible laughter drowning them out.

The Potters lay dead in their living room and baby Harry cried and cried. James' face was still and pale.

There was nobody left who called him Moony.

“I can't do this,” he gasped, and, without really thinking it through, aperated.

He stumbled as he landed, still gasping for air, though the pain in his little finger cut through the tears a bit. He must have splinched something. He tried to ground himself, though his mind was still standing in a blasted out crater, covered in blood, but the living room was familiar, as was the man sitting by the fire who'd paused mid quill stroke. Remus tried to run to him and collapsed forward, just as his the man leapt forward to catch him.

“I don't know what to do Dad. I can't do this,” he said, then, dully, realized he hadn't contacted his father since the war ended. “I'm sorry. For showing up like this. That I never wrote back.”

Lyall stroked his hair like he had when Lupin was a child and his scars kept him awake.

“It's alright. I'm not angry. I'm so, so sorry Remus. It's good to see you”

He grabbed tighter and the tears kept coming. It was so hard to breath. His father held tight and let him cry until he was too exhausted to cry more. His head pounded.

“I love you so much,” his father said, “and I'm so proud of all you've done. Your Mom too. You're a hero.”

“I- couldn't- couldn't even speak to him. To Sirius. I went to talk to him and I- . I can't- I can barely get out of bed anymore. I don't know what to do.”

Lyall held him gently, like this wasn't sudden or strange at all.

“I have trouble imagining anyone in your situation would feel differently, especially somebody as kind as you. You can't blame yourself for this, for any of this.”

“I should have known. I was always- been the one who- who they went to.”

“No one knew Remus. As for what to do, you sit on the couch while I make you tea. You must be dehydrated.”

He sat there, but at least the exhaustion had worn down his mind past the point of worrying about it. He didn't feel like an adult at all. He was barely out of school.

“I know there isn't anything I can say,” Lyall started slowly, “that would even start to help with how hard things must be right now. This isn't something that will ever stop hurting, but it won't always hurt this bad. I know even another second must feel intolerable now, but you will make it through this. Even as a child, you have always been the strongest person I know, and your Mom and I are here for you. If you need to stay for a bit or to borrow some money, anything.”

Part of him was almost offended by that. How could he be happy when the Potters would never be anything? They would not grow and heal.

“Thank you. I really should stay where I'm living. I'm working. It gives me something to do. You're right. I'll be alright. I'm sorry for coming over like this.”

He stood up, ready to apparate away.

“None of that. You're always welcome here. And you're Mum will want to see you. I imagine you haven't eaten dinner either. I'll wake her up and put something on the stove for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic ends before canon, so... I promise a fairly happy ending, but... it's also canon compliant, so keep that in mind.  
> This is a really personal, cathartic story for me. I never expected to write Harry Potter fanfic, but I really wanted to tell this story. Someday I'll post something on AO3 that isn't me projecting angsty shit, but that day is not today.


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